Heart of the Wilderness (13 page)
Kendra stirred. It was the first in a long time that she had been reminded of the mother she could barely remember.
“Is she Scotch too?” she asked, wishing to have some point of contact.
“No. No, she is German.”
Kendra’s head came up, her eyes reflecting her deep shock.
The man had no idea what the one simple word meant to Kendra. Again she saw the flashing dark eyes of Nonie as she spat in the dust of the path and hissed out the words, “German. P-f-f-t.” And spit again.
“What’s wrong?” asked her grandfather, sensing her discomfiture.
“Germans are bad,” she said in a whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re bad.”
“Who told you that?” he asked her. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Nonie. Nonie spit. She—”
“Nonie?” His mind scrambled to try to figure out the meaning of her words. Then a light dawned.
“Oh, that. Nonie shouldn’t say such things. Should know better.”
“But—”
“There was a trapper in the area once,” he went on to explain. “He was a bad trapper. He stole from other traps and made a great deal of trouble for everyone. Including Nonie’s husband, who was still alive at the time and trapping south of the settlement. Eventually the Mounties came and got the man. They put him in jail somewhere, I guess. We’ve never heard of him again. He was German. It’s true. But,
Kendra—you never should judge a whole race of people because one of them is bad. It doesn’t work that way.”
Kendra still looked doubtful.
“I knew a bad Scotsman once,” her grandfather went on. “He drank whiskey—all the time. Then picked fights with anyone who came along. He was a Scot. I am Scot. Does that make me bad?”
Kendra knew that it didn’t. Still she could not voice a reply.
“And I knew a bad Indian once,” her grandfather went on. “He never wanted to work a trapline. Never hunted for food. Never wanted to do anything except steal from his neighbors. He watched the other cabins, and whenever the people were not at home, he slipped in and stole from their traps and belongings, their food supplies and leggings. He was Indian. Nonie is an Indian. Does that make her a bad Indian?”
Kendra shook her head slowly. She knew that it didn’t. She loved Nonie.
“We must never—
never
judge a race by one person—or a person by a race. Each individual must be allowed to be good—or judged bad—on their own merit, their own behavior. Do you understand, Kendra?”
The words were spoken softly but firmly. Kendra sensed that her grandfather felt very strongly on the matter.
She nodded her head again.
“Maggie Miller is about the finest woman you will ever meet,” her grandfather went on. “She nursed your grandmother for months before—” He couldn’t finish the thought. “And Henry, her husband, another German—he risked his life to save mine. He still bears the scars on his hands. No, Kendra. One bad German does not make a race of bad Germans any more than one bad Scot makes a race of bad Scotsmen.”
Kendra looked at him solemnly. When it came to taking sides with the one or the other, Kendra was willing to accept the word of her grandfather over Nonie’s.
“George. Come in! It’s been a long time.”
Kendra judged the woman at the door to be Maggie Miller. The long journey had finally ended, and she and her grandfather stood on the stoop with small cases in hand.
“Come in. Come in,” the welcoming voice continued. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been such a long time.”
She drew them in. There was a strange and delicious aroma in the room. It smelled spicy and warm—reminding Kendra of a warm summer day in the berry patch.
“And this is Kendra?” The woman’s arm reached out to draw Kendra close. “My, how you’ve grown! And such a pretty girl, too. Your mama would be so proud of you.”
Kendra felt herself pulled close. She could smell the scent of the woman. So different from the way Nonie smelled. There was no hint of cured leather. No odor from open fires. No lingering smells of the cooking pots. Kendra did not recognize any of the strange aromas, so she felt neither welcomed nor repelled by them. They were simply new. Different. Like the house that enclosed her. It was strange. With furnishings and “things” all around her. Pictures on walls, more chairs than there were people. Books. Lamps. Baskets cradling various objects. Coats on hooks. Blankets draped here and there. It looked cluttered and busy to Kendra, who was used to stark simplicity.
She kept her eyes to the floor in the manner she had learned from the Indian women, but she was so tempted to peek around her, taking in all of the strange sights and feelings.
Mrs. Miller released her, and Kendra stepped back, not really feeling comfortable in the arms of the woman.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Miller said to them both, and George moved to an overstuffed chair with a multi-colored blanket draped over it and lowered himself with a sigh of contentment.
“How’s Henry?” he asked before his body had even settled in.
“Not good, I’m afraid.” The woman’s eyes shadowed. “He gets a bit weaker every day.”
George did not allow himself the comfort of the chair. He rose quickly and crossed to the bedroom where he knew the man to be. Mrs. Miller nodded and moved toward the kitchen. Kendra did not know what to do, so she followed her grandfather.
“Hello, Henry,” he said to the man who lay prostrate on the bed. “It’s George. I should have come sooner . . .” The words trailed off.
Kendra saw her grandfather reach down and take the limp, wasted hand in one of his strong, sun-browned ones. He turned the hand over and stared for a long moment at the scar on the back of the hand. Kendra too saw the scar. The scar that her grandfather had told her about. She saw her grandfather’s jaw working with emotion as he held the motionless hand. Then he laid it gently down on the covers and reached to brush the scanty gray hair back from the man’s face.
He turned then, surprised to see Kendra standing so near to the bed of the invalid.
“This is Henry,” he said quickly, as though he felt an explanation was in order. She nodded. She knew. She also saw in her grandfather’s eyes the terrible pain he felt in seeing his friend so helpless.
George stayed with Henry while Mrs. Miller took Kendra shopping for the new clothes she would need for her school year.
In a way, it
was
exciting. Kendra saw things she had never dreamed existed. Pretty things. Delicate things. Colorful things. Over and over she wished she could share her experience with Nonie. She wondered if Nonie’s eyes would light up and pronounce them good, or if she would stop and spit in the dust.
Kendra wasn’t quite sure what she thought about the new world. The world that she had quite forgotten. It fascinated her and seemed to draw her, yet she felt strange and uneasy with all the strangeness.
When the week was up and time to enter the new school approached, Kendra’s wardrobe was ready. Mrs. Miller herself had done much of the sewing. The new nightgowns and undergarments were ready. The stockings, shoes, and school uniforms were already carefully packed in the new case.
But as Monday drew closer, Kendra was more and more sure that Martha Adams’ School for Girls was not where she wanted to be. She wanted to climb aboard the boat with her grandfather and return to the place that was familiar. She wanted to go home to Nonie. To bury her face against the warm, soft side of Oscar. But Kendra did not even try to tell her grandfather how she felt. She did not speak with the German woman who fussed about her, hemming skirts and fitting bodices. Kendra buried the feelings deep inside, but at night when she went to bed, she pulled Dollie from her worn suitcase and later cried into the plump, soft body of the old rag doll.
It was terribly hard to say goodbye. George consoled himself with the fact that he was doing what was right for the child. Kendra had no such consolation. She saw the separation as a painful situation totally beyond her control. Nor could she see that there was anything to be gained by the whole endeavor.
She did not weep. Not as she was held in the arms of her grandfather and commended for being such a brave young lady. She did not even weep as she watched his tall back disappear beyond the strong wooden door of the girls’ school.
The tall, stern-looking young woman whom she was to call Miss Bruce said a crisp, “Come,” and Kendra turned to follow, much as Oscar followed her commands.
“This will be your room,” the young woman said. “You will share it with three girls. Stella Lange, Ruth Winters, and Rebecca Joyce. That bed will be yours. You may use the two bottom drawers in the chest by the window. Unpack your things and place them neatly in the drawers. Your case will be picked up for storage.
“Mind you hurry now. It will soon be time for the lunch bell.”
She turned on her heel and was gone.
Kendra stood, her whole body trembling. But she did not cry. The words of the woman had come so fast, so brisk, that Kendra wondered if she had understood them. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember. What had she said? Kendra looked at the bed. Had she said something about the bed? Oh yes. This was her bed. The three other beds in the room belonged to—to somebody else.
Kendra let her eyes wander over the room. They lighted on the case that held all her new things. The woman had said she was to unpack her new things. Where was she to put them? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t unscramble all the words that had poured out in such quick and utter confusion. In storage? But storage where?
Kendra knew about storage. Her grandfather had a loft in the cabin for storage of supplies. He had a shed out back for storage of pelts. He had another little shed for storage of materials for mending sleighs and harness and all sorts of other things. It held some tools too. Simple tools.
But where were the storage sheds for the girls’ school?
Kendra opened her suitcase and carefully took out all the new items. She piled them on the bed that she was told would be hers. The little piles kept toppling over, and she knew she would never be able to keep them together to carry to the storage shed.
There was a nice white sack over the pillow at the head of her bed. Kendra decided to borrow it. Item by item she began to load all her belongings into the case. All except Dollie. Kendra looked about the room to make sure she wasn’t being watched and stuffed the rag doll under her pillow. She had the feeling she was going to need her precious companion over the coming days.
The pillowcase was getting full by the time Kendra finished, but she managed to stuff the last pair of long stockings into the sack.
“I do wish I didn’t have to store them,” she whispered to herself. “I think Papa Mac was expecting me to wear them.” She looked down at the dress she was wearing. She guessed that it would have to do— maybe for a long time. She wished she had brought her buckskins.
“Now, where is the storage shed?” she asked herself, and lifting her bundle she traveled the long hall and pushed her way out the door that led to the rear of the property.
She managed to find a shed, but the door was locked. Kendra did not know what to do, and then she spotted a window above her that was slightly open.
“If I could find a ladder,” she murmured. She laid down her sack with all of her belongings and looked about. There on the side of the shed was a ladder. Kendra felt relieved to find that her problem would be solved so quickly and easily. She placed the ladder against the side of the building, hoisted her bundle and started up. Difficult climbing with her arms so full, she nearly lost her balance and fell.
She managed to push her bulky load through the open window. She heard the funny sound as it landed on the floor in the shed. Then there was a tinkling sound as though something else had landed on the floor as well. Kendra held her breath—but nothing more happened.
By the time she climbed back down the ladder and placed it back where she had found it, she was panting from her excursion. Somewhere a bell was ringing. Kendra puzzled over it. She was not used to hearing bells.
Then she remembered the words of the woman. There was to be a lunch bell. What did that mean?